Wrong Business
by doesnotloveyou
Summary: After the attack at Camp Lehigh, Steve and Natasha must find their way back to D.C. under cover of night. Steve tries to keep them both alive, while Natasha rethinks a lifetime of deceit and where that places her in Steve's narrative.
1. Chapter 1

She wasn't unconscious, he could tell by the pressure along the back of his shoulders where her arm was just barely holding on. Occasionally, he'd hear her inhale sharply when he hit the ground too hard as he ran, feeling the vibration in the shield as the rim knocked her in the back of the neck. The quinjets were just barely audible now, which meant at least that they were still low to the ground. It wasn't until they were deep in the undergrowth that he chanced another series of coughs to get the smoke and dust out of his lungs. Natasha stirred slightly, but he couldn't see her face in the dark to tell if she was coming to. Adjusting the shield to better support her, he headed for the road, keenly aware of his trail left in the woods.

The nearest car was the Dodge they'd left outside Camp Lehigh, but there was a gas station eight miles out from there. By the time they'd covered half the distance, Natasha had a firm grip on his hood and showed no interest in getting back on her feet. They'd move faster this way anyhow.

The Honda had been there earlier in the day, a For Sale sign in its back window. Natasha sat against the rear tire with the shield covering her left as he picked the lock. She was quieter than he liked, but he supposed whatever pain she was experiencing wasn't anything she hadn't endured before.

Carrying her around to the passenger's side, he eased Natasha into the seat. Her hair slipped under his hand as he ducked her head under the doorframe and laid it carefully against the headrest. Natasha grunted and moved her legs into a more comfortable position. When he buckled her in she raised her own arms as if controlled by a lazy puppeteer. They didn't wear seatbelts on the ride up to avoid entrapment in case of an attack, but he'd risk having to rip her out of this one if all went south.

With a spark the engine caught and thrummed to life. Clenching his jaw, Steve prayed the kid inside the station still had on his headphones. Sliding into the driver's side, he shut the door and released the handbrake.

"Are we 'borrowing' this one too?" asked a groggy voice beside him.

Steve glanced quickly over his shoulder and pulled out. "You wouldn't happen to have any safe-houses between here and D.C. would you?"

Natasha rolled her head to give him a vaguely sardonic look. It could have just been a regular look, but in her present state sardonic was a safe guess.

"Compromised now anyway," he inferred.

...

Twice in two days he'd snapped at her. First, for endangering the rescue mission on the Lemurian; second, for thinking she'd lied when he asked what was on the flash drive.

"Where're we going?"

A heavy sigh preceded an equally dreary, "Not sure."

Natasha stared blankly out the window, watching the headlights strike the trees. Two years since Manhattan. Over two years and more than a dozen assignments together, she'd watched his trust in her sap gradually. People had lost faith in her before, baseless faith, people she _would_ have thrown under the bus if the situation called for it. Yet in an unexpected way, it meant something different that Captain America had grown wary of her every word and action.

Avoiding the painful fact that her search for redemption came to a screeching halt when the most trustworthy person she'd ever met despised her, Natasha managed to keep her head up. That was until Nick died and that trustworthy person lied to her face. Nick believed in her, Nick was her business, and whatever he thought of her Steve had no right to withhold details concerning his death. Finding the drive in the vending machine was more than a golden opportunity to hold something over him, it was fate. This was her narrative that Rogers had stumbled into, the one she shared with Nick. She had a right to know his final ambitions, and no self-righteous idealist was taking that from her.

Being slammed into the break room wall more or less changed the pace of things. Rogers made it very clear that they were no longer on the same side, that his days of trusting her even minimally had come to an end, and that that strong distaste for her could turn murderous if she didn't say something quick.

Natasha was good at saying things quick.

The lights in the intersection stabbed at her brain. Steve had sighed darkly when looking at the gas gauge, and was staying just over the speed limit. Still, every bump in the road reminded her of vomiting. Meanwhile, the shield lying against her legs was impossible to balance, the rim either digging into her shin or her knee.

"Still awake over there?"

Purposely, she kept silent.

He turned his head twice before shaking her arm. "Hey."

Annoyed mumble.

"Then answer me next time."

That look he had at the hospital told her more than did his pathetic lie, his obvious disguise, or the stashed flash drive. Natasha was literally on her toes, inches from possible death-by-super-soldier, when she saw he was just as in the black as she was. In grasping for a light switch, they'd stumbled into each other's narratives.

...

Natasha sucked in her breath the second time he shook her arm. She had been sleeping.

"Keep your eyes open." Though sleep could do them both a lot of good right now. "If you can't do that, then start talking to me."

"I'm…fine." She readjusted herself under the shield. "I hate this thing."

Steve watched the cross streets for black SUV's.

"Where're we going?"

"You already asked that." He glanced at her as she swallowed and closed her eyes. "Hey."

"What?" her brow furrowed.

"What did I say?"

"I'm fine."

"You're concussed." He snapped his fingers under her nose while watching the road. "Stay focused."

Natasha took what he might call a relaxing breath before letting it out slowly. "We're back in Virginia."

"Good." She's at least that alert.

"We should change cars again."

Steve looked at the gas gauge. "This one's going to have to last us."

"Did you take the sale sign out of the back?"

He couldn't believe he forgot the damn sign. "The owner will find it easier once we're out."

Natasha cleared her throat, and pulled her hands into her sleeves. "Tell me when we get there."

"Really? Cos' I was thinking I'd just leave you in the car to get arrested."

She opened one eye to glare at him.

Steve sighed through his nose, and flicked on the turn signal. "Just don't pass out on me."

...

He was crap at blending in. It felt like her whole life she'd been incognito, even at birth a shadow entity looking over her shoulder and keeping her voice down. Steve Rogers made her stand out like a sore thumb. Big, obvious, Adonis in hipster glasses. It was so hard not to mess with him.

"I didn't have to kiss you," she mumbled.

"You don't say," he replied cynically.

Talking reassured both of them that she wasn't about to slip into a coma, but it hurt to talk and she'd rather sit and think instead. Hell, she'd rather be on a beach building a sandcastle on top of Clint. He'd fall asleep halfway through, lulled by the heat and the lap of the waves, and then she'd just sit back and wait until he decided he wanted to turn over only to realize she'd rebuilt Rome atop him. What she'd give to be Clint sleeping in sand right now. With the shit-storm that was about to hit them both, she half-hoped he was already there. This would play hell with his shaky sanity for sure.

Natasha shook off Barton, shook off the implications that now loomed over them, and turned her eyes to the road. They hadn't passed another car for ages, and there were no lights on in any of the houses. The digital clock on the dashboard was out, and the moon wasn't easy to locate.

"You still have your phone on you?" Steve asked in response to her gaze at the blank clock face.

Phone? Natasha wasn't sure if she'd left it behind or not. Then she remembered it was in her back pocket. Reaching for it, she found that the shield gave her very little wiggle room. Giving up, she lay her head against the taut seatbelt.

"It's like…three am."

Sandcastle. The bunker had split with a deafening crack, the ancient dust cakey on her tongue as it shivered around them. Debris pummeled the shield like condemning hail before the concrete wall shoved into the back of her head.

Then, vaguely aware of Steve moving in the tight space, hot fingers against her throat, checking. Fire crackled healthily as he searched for a weak spot in the rubble then groaned from the exertion until there was a satisfying scrape and a _thud _she felt in her veins_. _Heat swarmed their air bubble, and with her support gone Natasha slumped to the side. Steve coughed, the dirt crunching under his heel, fabric of his sleeve swiping rough concrete, the shield clattering and scraping against everything.

One arm under her legs, the shield scooped under her back, and before she'd reflexively hooked an elbow around his neck, Natasha knew she owed him. Just finished paying off the Barton debt, now she had to fix things with a man who didn't trust her, didn't like her, and who she'd driven crazy all day by trying to endear herself to him. Unnecessary commentary about the art of laying low, killing herself to get into that drive, teasing him about his love life, anything to make up for her mess on the Lemurian yesterday.

Except now that he knew what was on the drive he didn't need her anymore. The narrative went from being hers to becoming theirs. Now it belonged to him, and her purpose in the story was obsolete. But of course, Steve didn't see the world that way. That was why he trusted at all, why he stood out in a crowd, and why he carried her from that bunker without a second thought.

Her entire life up until that moment had been about lying and manipulating people into believing who she might be at any given moment. A long line of individuals and organizations, agendas and causes, had relied on her talented dishonesty. It was evident now that she'd changed so many times she no longer knew whose cause she was promoting or who she was even supposed to be.

_"How about a friend?"_

She'd just laughed.

...

Steve parked the rumbling car on the curb, sheltered by the copse. Natasha had achieved a light sleep for the last three hours, speaking or moving occasionally. It was early yet, but they couldn't afford to lose any more time.

"Natasha." He unbuckled her. "You with me?"

A question mark hummed in her throat, and as the belt slid over her chest she adjusted her arms in turn. The driver-side door was open and he had one foot out while slipping the shield over her lap.

"You've gotta move now."

Natasha waited until the shield was no longer encumbering her to open her door and step out onto the curb. He caught her arm just as she teetered.

"Fine. I'm fine." She attempted a wry smile. "Foot fell asleep."

Scanning the copse and sidewalk in both directions, Steve shut the door behind her. "Let's move."

...

_"It's a good way not to die though."_

The truth, as it so happened, proved this theory. Their true identities were on record. They were going to die.

And then they didn't.

Whoever the real Natasha was she must have been the scared, useless person Rogers lifted out of that bunker. The one who sat quietly in the passenger's seat recalling all the sins unknowingly committed under HYDRA'S order. Whatever happened to SHIELD/HYDRA in the coming hours, Natalia Romanova would be following one agenda and one individual. In saving her life, Rogers had put her back in his narrative. She intended to deserve it.

...

Wilson jogged all the way back to his place. They kept their distance, using trees and cars as cover. There was a lump in Steve's throat about getting him involved, especially after only meeting him two days ago. Of anyone though, he could trust Sam not to balk at danger.

They crouched behind a row of trashcans as he entered the house, both of them slightly out-of-breath from the sudden run after hours of sitting. Natasha stuck to his side, keeping her eyes and ears open as they approached Wilson's back door. A neighbor was moving cooking pans in their kitchen, a car started, Wilson's refrigerator door shut.

Nat saw in her reflection in the sliding glass door that Clint's necklace had shifted, the clasp now resting above her collarbone. Quickly, she readjusted it just as Steve rapped on the glass.

The blinds raised. For a long second, Sam looked at the two of them, taking them in. His expression was clear: they looked like hell.

The door slid open, and Sam focused a rather worried gaze on Steve. "Hey, man."

"I'm sorry about this," Steve said, keeping his voice down. "We need a place to lay low."

"Everyone we know is trying to kill us," added Natasha frankly, giving him her most sincere face.

Sam looked between them again, "Not everyone," and stepped back from the open door.


	2. Chapter 2

What might happen next neither of them knew. Sam was rightly on high alert, eyes always on the door or the windows, listening closely to his two fugitives wherever they were in the house. Showers, sleep, and a decent meal were in order, but the overwhelming disquiet forced that aside.

No time for showers. Sam rummaged through his drawers for anything that might fit Steve, while Natasha rinsed her hair out in the bathtub. Steve abandoned his smoky clothes and washed up as best he could in the bathroom sink just to get the ash and dirt off his face and arms.

Sam's house told him little more about his personality than he'd already assumed. From the faux gold faucets and matching towel racks, to the metropolis of CD jewel cases stacked high beside a modern record player, Sam was a settled civilian just like he'd said. Comfortable and comforted. Blinds and curtains in every window in every room, to keep out the neighbors' floodlights, the headlights from passing cars, and the city lights. Mattress just a little too hard and a little more like sleeping in the barracks. And all the music needed to tune out the civilized world and soothe the grief and anxiety of the job.

Steve shook the excess water off his hands and reached for a plush hand towel. Chancing to look in the mirror, he saw Natasha still seated on the bed where she had been meticulously drying out her hair. Now, however, the towel lay across her lap, clenched in one hand, the other poised as if she'd been reaching for her hair but was frozen in the action. It wasn't an unfamiliar look, especially not the unblinking gaze. Still, having been so animated the past few days, this was a disconcerting look on _her_.

Steve tossed the towel back and stepped into the room. "You okay?"

She'd reanimated the moment she'd noticed his return, towel raised to press water out of the ratty ends of her hair. "Yeah."

As he approached, Natasha tried fending him off with a brief smile and a content expression, but it flickered and died as he pulled up a chair and sat in front of her.

"What's goin' on?"

She paused, lips pursed, tongue pressed to the back of her teeth. It was straight honesty from here on out. "When I first joined SHIELD, I thought I was going straight."

Steve listened with wide-eyed compassion, a look she'd seen often both in the field and out. She knew he was fierce- the purple spattering across his shield during "Manhattan" told her that- but Steve wore his heart on his sleeve and tended to let moral obligation reign in his decision-making. He must have the cleanest conscience of her career, each page as startlingly white as the day he was born.

"There's a chance you might be in the wrong business."

A repeat of what she'd said earlier that day. Was he teasing? In her estimation, Steve didn't tease much. Was he still hostile then, ribbing her with the same double-edged sword she'd blown him off with?

He smiled slightly to reassure her otherwise, he meant well by it.

"I owe you."

Steve shook that off. "It's okay."

Even as he said it, he realized who he was talking to. Natasha wasn't the only ex-Soviet in SHIELD, and certainly not the only Russian. There seemed to be an inborn need to pay back dues, whether benign or vindictive, among all of them. He couldn't tell if it was cultural or genetic, but it was binding. Whatever her loyalties in the bunker or even now, Natasha meant that. A life for a life, and he trusted her to see it through.

He even told her so.

An array of emotions, like foot traffic during a New York stoplight, bled across her face. Hope, worry, shock, and disbelief crowded her features as her eyes searched his, still double-checking for truth. It felt a little like giving someone a prize they weren't expecting as they search you frantically for some tell-tale sign that this is nothing but a dream.

"You're rather chipper for someone who just found out they died for nothing."

"Well," Steve sat back with a grim smile, "I guess I just like to know who I'm fighting."

...

Sam hadn't had breakfast himself yet, so adding the rest of the egg carton to a large skillet wasn't too much of a sacrifice. He emptied the orange juice carton as well, though it didn't look like the small redhead ate much to begin with.

The charmer in the Corvette Sam had seen not two days ago had put on a weary, impatient tone. No games, no coyness, just the hard expression gained through heavy combat.

"Old girlfriend," he explained when he dug a hair straightener out of the hallway closet.

Natasha arched a brow at the assumption that it might be considered his.

"There's a jacket on the bed too," he added as he shut the door and walked down the hall. "Didn't stay long, but she sure left a lot of shit."

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, she listened as he and Steve murmured in the kitchen, unconsciously keeping their voices down. Waiting for the straightener to heat up, she studied her appearance in the mirror. Damp and unbrushed, her hair was slowly curling. She could try curls, their pursuers weren't expecting curls. There was also an electric razor in the cabinet.

Natasha set her jaw and looked sideways at the iron. There was no more running since last night. The idea hadn't even crossed Steve's mind. Purposefully, Natasha took the handle of the iron and chose a lock of frazzled hair.

For a heavyweight with a voracious metabolism, Steve barely touched breakfast. The woman, Sam knew, was more likely queasy than hungry, so he dragged out the toaster and wholegrain white. As the two fugitives conversed at his table, the direness of the situation became clearer. Sam didn't understand everything they spoke of, nor was he able to put a face and rank to any of the names they mentioned, but these were minor details. Wherever Captain Rogers told him to go, he'd go there.

"You didn't say he was a Pararescue," Natasha mildly accused when looking over the files he proffered.

Steve gave the photo of he and Riley one glance, touchingly asked if it was him, then looked away with remorse.

"What'd you use, a stealth chute?" Natasha asked after several utterances of praise. Sam wondered if they'd purposely ignored the file beneath the photo. It only spelled out "Falcon" in bold block letters.

He wouldn't have suggested the wings if Fort Meade wasn't so nearby, but he knew breaking into that kind of getup without two highly recognizable fugitives would be daring enough. Yet all it took was one sideways glance at Natasha, and she shrugged in an offhanded way as though he didn't even need to check first. Sam looked between the two of them, unconcerned at how this would change his future, and nodded.

"It's an hour drive and I haven't got Tupperware." He pointed to the cooling eggs and reached for the plate of toast. "Eat up."


End file.
